The Fourth Bearer of Narya
by Shonushka Aurelie Sen
Summary: When Cirdan entrusts Narya to Gandalf, he believes himself unworthy of the task before him. As the history of Middle-Earth unfolds at his feet, he battles evil while coming to know love with none other than Galadriel, the Lady of Light. Separated by time, race, role, and custom, Gandalf and Galadriel must decide where love stands for two of Middle-Earth's most powerful guardians.
1. Chapter 1

Greetings, fellow Tolkien fans! This is my first attempt at Lord of the Rings fanfiction, and it will be a Gandalf/Galadriel story. It will be set about four hundred years prior to the events of the read, enjoy, and review! In this scene, Narya's previous bearer, Cirdan, is traveling to the Havens with Gandalf; when they reach the harbor, he gives Narya to Gandalf, and there our story begins...

Updates will be irregular; I'm in high school and have a lot of studying to do, even over summer. I'll update on the same day I finish chapters, which will probably not be more than once a week.

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_"__Take this ring, Master, for your labours will be heavy; but it will support you in the weariness that you have taken upon yourself. For this is the Ring of Fire, and with it you may rekindle hearts in a world that grows chill. But as for me, my heart is with the Sea, and I will dwell by the grey shores until the last ship sails. I will await you."_ -Appendix B, "The Tale of Years," Page 399

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He had accompanied his old friend down to the Grey Havens for the last time that very morning. There were many elves, over the years, to whom he had bid farewell at the shores of the Havens. However, he and Círdan had been friends and allies for many a year; and a faint pang seemed to pervade his mind at the idea of ages that would pass before he would catch even the briefest glimpse of Círdan again.

The three other elves with whom they were traveling were riding a little way ahead of Gandalf and Círdan; Círdan too seemed to be slightly melancholy. His white horse seemed to walk more slowly than the other four, as if it were extremely reluctant to carry him any further. Gandalf doubted that the horse was tired, for it was a young, healthy beast and had been fed and watered well. Moreover, Cirdan was an excellent rider; he sat as lightly as a child, and never used the slightest bit of force to urge his steed to halt or to pick up its pace. The fluttering of Gandalf's robe in the slight breeze was the only sound aside from the soft _clip-clop _of the horses' hooves; neither he nor Círdan was speaking. Círdan was reflecting on the many years he had spent in Middle-Earth; Gandalf was wondering what the future held in store for him and for the rest of the world, and thinking of what might pass before he came to the Havens again.

"Gandalf." Círdan broke the silence.

"Hm?" He looked up, startled out of his reverie. Círdan's horse had finally come to a complete halt in the middle of the dusty path; the other three elves, Alassiel, Adan, and Caladhon, were out of sight. Only the distant sounds of their chatter and bright laughter floated back to the elder two; Momentarily distracted, Gandalf smiled; he had long been fond of the three young elves, all hardly past their five hundredth year. Unlike most elves, they were merely departing Middle-Earth to be with their parents, who had sailed the previous year.

"Gandalf." Círdan said again. Gandalf turned to face his friend.

"Yes, Círdan?" Gandalf's voice clearly spoke of the history between the two; it had been a long and trying one, yet had bound them together as closely and fiercely as two friends could be.

"I have long suspected what your role in the world to come will be," he said, gently flicking his reins. The stubborn white pony remained where it stood; Círdan whispered a few words in soothing Sindarin, coaxing the horse to begin its slow, reluctant trot once more.

"What do you believe it will be, Círdan?"

"I know that your part in it will be far greater than anything I have seen, or anything I could have fathomed in my wildest of dreams. I have watched you long, Gandalf, and now I am certain that it is _now _that I should set the very last of my affairs in order."

"What is that?" Gandalf's curiosity had been awakened, for Círdan had been meticulously precise as to his leaving. Not a single task had been left undone, and Gandalf wondered what Círdan could have left for the very last moment, at the very shores of the Havens.

Cirdan made a motion as if extracting something from the depths of his robes; he brought his hand out of the swathes of grey silk and laid it, palm facing upwards, upon his knee. Gandalf's eyes studied Círdan's outstretched hand; there seemed to be some energy there, some force which Gandalf had always sensed when Círdan was close. He has assumed it to be the handiwork of an exceptionally strong _fea, _but it seemed as if the strength which gave Círdan life was lying there on the pale, slender hand.

"You feel it, do you not, Gandalf?"

He nodded. "I do indeed."

"And am I right in supposing that you always have?"

Gandalf inclined his head. "What is it, my friend? I have sensed that presence about you for all the long years we have known each other, but I assumed it was simply your _fea. _It seems that I was wrong."

"You were, though not as you may believe." Círdan tilted his head slightly, considering the hollow of his hand. He puckered his lips slightly and blew out over his palm. Something seemed to shift there, as if smoke had been swiftly blown into being and then drawn into a phial. A liquid, silvery object took shape on Círdan's skin, appearing to shape itself before Gandalf's eyes.

As he watched, its brilliance increased tenfold, and it rounded into a perfect ring; in an instant, he understood that it was precisely that; a flawless circle of purest _mithril, _but for the slight gap at one side. Suddenly, it was as if a flame had been sparked between the two gleaming points; it grew until it had closed the space, and a second, smaller _mithril _ring rippled into place about it. Once the light had dimmed, a beautiful jewel was sitting in Círdan's hand; a large mithril ring, etched with Tengwar characters on each side of the band, set with a star-shaped ruby which seemed to glow with its own inner fire. Gandalf studied the ruby, expecting that it would darken, like the _mithril _had, and become no more than an ordinary, unassuming gem. However, the stone continued to sparkle, and Gandalf lifted astounded eyes to Círdan.

"Narya," he gasped. "Gil-galad entrusted Narya to you. How long have you had it, Cirdan?"

"He did," said Círdan. "And I have borne it all these years. However, I shall not take it over the Sea with me. I cannot. Its place is here in Aman, where it still has the power to do good. Unlike my work, its toil is not yet finished."

"What, then,will you do?"

"I shall give it to you, of course."

Gandalf looked at Cirdan in surprise. "You cannot. There are many more worthy of wielding this ring than I, Cirdan; if I were to err, there is so much which I would shatter with me."

"I have watched you long, Gandalf. I know that there is no other on whose hand this ring could shine with the light it bore while upon the finger of Gil-galad. It dimmed upon coming to me."

"Cirdan, I am but young in the years of the Maiar. Though I have lived long, I have not yet seen enough...perhaps Saruman..."

At the mention of Saruman, Cirdan's eyes flashed and he reined in his horse.

"Do not think that my mind lingered upon Saruman the White for even one instant," he muttered, as if afraid that others were lurking within earshot. "Wise he may be, and strong he certainly is...but my heart tells me that he will turn from us. I have had no reason to believe so, but I will not be swayed."

"There are many in Aman far wiser and stronger than I, even if you do not trust Saruman the White."

"Take this ring, Master, for your labours will be heavy; but it will support you in the weariness that you have taken upon yourself. For this is the Ring of Fire, and with it you may rekindle hearts in a world that grows chill. But as for me, my heart is with the Sea, and I will dwell by the grey shores until the last ship sails. I will await you."

"You are not leaving?" Gandalf could hardly believe his ears.

"No. I shall merely dwell here by the Havens for a while; I will not leave these shores until the last ship leaves Middle-Earth."

"That could be ages from now, my old friend."

"And yet you choose to remain...why?"

"My time in Middle-Earth has reached its end...but the day on which I am to set foot on the shores of Valinor has not yet come," said Cirdan. "And I am tied to this Ring; I cannot cross the Sea until its work is done. Such is the lot of a Ring-bearer. My toil is finished, Gandalf, but that of Narya has but begun. In your hands-upon your finger-it shall see a time and speed work the likes of which I could never have imagined."

The harbor of the Grey Havens came into view. The three young elves, it seemed, has dismounted from their horses long ago, and had fallen into idle chatter as they sat on the landing stage, dangling their bare toes in the cool, clear water. It struck Gandalf then that something of the elves who had left these shores seemed to remain in the Havens; no matter how clear and deep the water, it never appeared blue. Rather, it was a cool grey, like an Elven cloak. The sea stretched toward the horizon like a pool of rippling, molten silver, and the light of the sun seemed to grow more intense as Gandalf slid off his horse and Cirdan jumped lightly to the ground.

He held out his hand, clearly expecting Gandalf to hold his own out in return. Gandalf met Cirdan's eyes once more, and found nothing there but a quiet assurance. He took a deep breath and obediently stretched his palm out, feeling the cool weight of Narya on his skin.

"It will always glow when it is on your finger," Cirdan told him, in a tone which told Gandalf clearly that he was to remember every word and follow every last command that Cirdan might give him concerning Narya. "If you wish to hide its light, simply pass your hand over it; your enemies and those whom you do not trust will not be able to see it, no matter how brightly it shines or how close it may be to you. Keep it with you; it will grant you strength with your power, and will aid you and all those around you. Bear it well, Gandalf," said Cirdan. "It is yours now, and you will do more with it than I ever did."

Gandalf opened his mouth to protest, but his words died in his throat when the ruby began to gleam brightly; so brightly, in fact, that he had to close his eyes against the light. Cirdan quickly passed his hand over the jewel; the brilliance died away, and when Gandalf looked at it again, it looked dark and unextraordinary-a dim, but beautiful, star-cut ruby.

"Do not contradict me, Gandalf," said Cirdan with a light laugh which sounded like the chorus of large bells on a clear day. "For Narya has spoken with greater truth and fewer words than I could muster for such an occasion."

"I do not quite understand," said Gandalf. Though he had not said what it was he did not understand, Cirdan was an elf of few words, and knew perfectly well what it was that Gandalf did not understand. _Everything._

"I know," answered Cirdan. For the first time in the last few days, a worried look descended upon his face. "Neither do I."

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Please review! I hope you liked it. I promise, I will update soon.


	2. Chapter 2

Sorry for the late update!

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Gandalf soon found that carrying the ring was not at all what he had expected. He had expected it to glow almost constantly, as Cirdan had said it would; however, it seemed to shimmer with a cold, faint gleam that seemed slightly too bright for a reflection of the late afternoon Sun, but too dim for a light of its own. He dithered about what to do with the ring; to wear it on his callused, pale finger seemed dangerous nearly to the point of peril. However, the prospect of tucking it into a pocket of his robe to hide it from prying eyes felt as if he were denying the importance of the great charge Cirdan had laid upon him. He settled both gualms by turning the ring so that the bright ruby rested above the palm of his hand rather than the back. Laying his hand flat on his white-robed knee, he noted with some satisfaction that the band of the ring looked entirely ordinary and completely unassuming against the back of his fourth finger.

"The riddle grows ever thicker," he muttered, as he noticed the light of Narya's ruby vanish entirely. "Something is to come of this, though I cannot fathom what."

He was not exactly sure where to go; he had accompanied Cirdan for the last several years, and as far as he knew, there was not much he could do. He wondered where his path should take him. He had always been welcome in Imladris, the Heart of the Elves nestled in the valley of Rivendell, guarded and cleansed by the River Bruinen. He could also let his steps direct him toward Caras Galadhon, the pride of Lothlorien, and home to Galadriel, the Lady of Light.

There was nothing pressing his mind, and the prospect of an unharried visit to either Imladris or to the Valley of Singing Gold seemed a gift denied him too often in the past. As he set up his bedroll under an elm tree which provided both shelter and some relief from the scorching nights of late summer, he smiled at the thought that there was nothing-no plight, no sudden calamity, no prospect of terror-that would hurry his choice.

He would decide in the morning, after a good night's sleep. He tied his horse to an alder tree right beside his elm and chuckled as the white mare whickered into the top of his hood. She had been a gift from Cirdan; a strong Elvish pony with a coat of gleaming white which almost resembled spun moonlight under the cover of darkness. Great black liquid eyes shone intelligently out of a face which Gandalf knew was noble, as far as horses went; and she had a mane and tail of a dirty shade of grey, rather similar to the color of Gandalf's own robes. The strong little mare was named Faelwen, the bringer of justice; Gandalf had thought it appropriate.

He lay down on the bedroll and stared up at the interlacing branches stretching up above him, which seemed to leave tiny spaces almost intentionally, through which the stars could twinkle. Gandalf looked up at the deep blue sky for a few moments and then fell into a sound and sudden sleep. As he slipped into slumber, he heard Faelwen whinnying in an almost confused manner...

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His dreams were strange that night. Gandalf was clearly aware of the fact that he was dreaming, but to his astonishment, he could make neither head nor tail of his visions. He knew that he was sleeping in his own strangely elven way; with his eyes fixed wide open and his body as rigid as a plank.

The first to cross his line of sight had been a strange vessel, a pitcher of gleaming _mithril _with two white gems set into the curve of the handle. A fair white hand had filled the pitcher at a rocky spring, and had then poured it into a wide, shallow stone bowl. As the clear, sparkling water fell toward the cool darkness of the bottom of the bowl, it seemed to lose substance, and become nothing more than a pool of shifting shadow in the basin. Rooted as he was to the ground, Gandalf could not move; all he could do was blink over and over again until the image of the body attached to the hand that held the basin came into focus.

He saw rippling golden hair captured beneath a net embellished with seed-pearls, as well as a tall, slender, and strangely familiar figure. The face was slightly turned, so that he could see the profile; he could distinguish nothing but for a long, sharp nose and a complexion which seemed to be lit from within, but veiled in shadow at the same time. A single pale, pointed ear unveiled the fact that the woman was an elleth The mouth was turned down in worry, and he could faintly make out the figure of someone else, an ellon, similar in stance and bearing to the woman standing with her back toward Gandalf.

"_Man cerig, hiril vuin?_" came the voice of the ellon. As he drew forward, his features were thrown into sharp relief. One side of his face was entirely veiled in shadow, and the side which was turned toward Gandalf was illuminated so brightly that he could see nothing but the shape of the brow and the bridge of his nose.

To Gandalf's astonishment, the elleth responded in the common tongue.

"A strange shadow hangs over Dol Guldur," she said. Her brow was furrowed, and she leaned closer to the basin. "Can you see anything?"

The ellon drew nearer to the standing basin and bent over it, his silvery eyes searching the murky depths of the bowl. As he leaned closer to the surface of what appeared to be dark water within, a lock of hair very like the elleth's slipped over his shoulder and into the basin. The elf gasped as a sudden caustic smell wafted its way about the gleaming room, and he drew back sharply. Three pairs of eyes-the elleth's, the elf's, and Gandalf's own-widened simultaneously as the elf picked up the strands of golden hair that had fallen into the ornately carved vessel.

They had been burned and shriveled into frail threads of coal black, and promptly crumbled into a fine, dark powder in the ellon's hand.

"What is this, Alatariel?" said the ellon, whose voice was filled with a nameless fear. "Your visions have never taken physical form. What has happened?"

The elleth shook her head in a clear gesture of bewilderment. She too leaned in closer over the basin, and her visage suddenly blazed with a fierce orange and red light which flooded from its base. She let out a cry of pain, as if she had been burned, and cast an arm draped with a fine silken sleeve over her face. To Gandalf's horror, she appeared to be rooted to the ground, unable to turn her back and flee. Her companion ran forward, wrapped an arm about her waist, and pulled her away.

"We must send out the Guard immediately," whispered the elleth, her face suddenly haggard. "My heart tells me he has returned."

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Gandalf awoke with a jolt. Leaping up from the ground, he crumpled his bedroll into an unruly heap, stuffed a bit of _lembas _bread into his mouth, and untied Faelwen from the tree he had secured her to.

"Where to, my friend?" he asked, in response to the mare's questioning eyes. "To Lorien."

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Review!


	3. Chapter 3

All right...I have been absent from this tale for almost a year. Do forgive me. So, onward...

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Gandalf had, at first, refused in horror when Círdan had led forth the little white mare from the stables at Imladris. But Círdan had only laughed and placed the reins into Gandalf's unwilling hands. Faelwen had been Círdan's steed for a good ten years before he had presented her to Gandalf, and the wizard had openly marveled at the horse's agility time and again. Gandalf had often thought (with no small amount of regret) that he ought to have tempered his astonished wonder at the sight of one of the Mearas stabled amongst the common stallions and ponies of Rivendell. Círdan was not one who held anything too dear to be given to those he loved; if anything, the dearer the treasure, the more joy Círdan found in giving it away.

_It might have something to do with the beard, _Gandalf mused. _Durin was fairly flabbergasted when he set eyes on Círdan and found that elves may grow beards if they so choose. _

But at that moment, Gandalf was decidedly glad that Círdan had given Faelwen to him, and that he had accepted her as his companion. She had proved a more faithful horse than any of her predecessors; the latter being the horses who took great pleasure in tossing the wizard into mud-puddles. These horses (many of which Eorl the Young of Rohan had lent him, constantly amused by his many mishaps with the beasts) had been returned to their owners with little explanation as to why Gandalf had found them unsuitable. Círdan, of course, had noticed this, and had made endless jokes at the hapless Istar's expense.

_"It is not my fault," Gandalf had grumbled, although his voice had hardly hidden a smile. "I do not see why they toss me into the nearest ditch, but carry you as lightly as if you weighed less than nothing. Perhaps even your Faelwen would decide to hurl me into a pool at the first turning."_

_"Why do you not try and see?" asked Círdan readily. "If you can ride her well, I shall give her to you."_

Furthermore, the wizard was glad to have the little mare as a reminder of his friend. She was, as Círdan had said time and again, a Hasharin-bred horse, born of a Haradaic dam and a Mearas for a sire. This alone had made her near-enough priceless in the old elf's eyes, even before she had become a friend rather than a steed.

Now, as they rode, Faelwen seemed to feel her master's urgency, and the two were making good headway toward Lothlorien. A few leagues away from the borders, Gandalf found that Narya began to grow hot on his palm. Thinking it merely due to the warmth of the day and the warm dampness on his left hand, he pulled it off and slid it deftly onto the third finger of his right hand instead. If anything, it glowed even brighter. Gandalf cast a wary look about the glade. It was true that he was near enough for help to come if there was any trouble, but he could not rest until he was within the border of those great, glimmering trees, and had sought counsel with Galadriel and Celeborn. His brow creased as he remembered the words that Círdan had said many times before his departure to the Havens.

_"Olorin, I would not trust Saruman the White with the abandon that you do. Not on my life."_

Saruman was hasty; not even Radagast the Brown, immersed as he was in the care of the birds and beasts that livened the woods about Rhosgobel, could deny that. He had all of Radagast's impulsiveness, but none of the tender concern that fueled Radagast's actions; Gandalf had once seen the man rushing about from garret to cellar looking for herbs while telling a baby badger a bedtime tale at the same time. Radagast did not end up finding the required meadowsweet and lemon-balm that day, and he wore a hole in one of the stairs as he dashed hither and yon, but the infant badger had probably had the time of its life.

Yes, Saruman's heart had never rung anything but true to Gandalf, but perhaps Círdan was right; Saruman was not yet ready to know that Narya had passed to Gandalf. He would be sure to think of it as a sort of betrayal, that Cirdan had given the ring to a member of the Order rather than its Head.

"Mithrandir! _Mai l'ovannen; gi nathlam hi._" Gandalf squinted and saw a young golden-haired elf come springing up the path, his bow on his back. His company seemed to have been reluctant to leave the shade of the trees, and Gandalf smiled widely as he recognized him.

"Haldir Suiadanion! Well met, _mellon nin. _And are those your two fine brothers, Rumil and Orophin, that I see lingering in the boughs ahead?"

"Pretend you don't notice them, Mithrandir," said the elf, lowering his voice. Gandalf smiled at the sight of him. Haldir had been promoted to the ranking of marchwarden of Lorien a few weeks past, and his voice was still full of the importance of his new task.

"And why is that?" Gandalf handed Faelwen's reins to an elder elleth, who led the mare away to be stabled. It was a quarter-mile walk back to Caras Galadhon, the capital of the city, but Faelwen did not know this; she gazed reproachfully at her master, as if she believed that he had given her away.

"They have not yet mastered Westron, Mithrandir," said Haldir in regret. "Believe me when I say that the tutors labor with them day and night, but neither of them have been able to say so much as, 'The cat chased the mouse and had it for supper.'"

"Ah, but I could converse in Sindarin well enough, could I not?"

"Of course," said Haldir, incling his head. "But Mother wishes them to practice, and I do not wish to cross her and talk to them in Quenya or in the Grey-tongue."

"Has she forbidden the Common Speech to fall upon her younger sons' ears?" Gandalf's eyes snapped in mild amusement, and Haldir broke into a bright, merry laugh.

"Aye, that she has, and it has been nothing but Westron in our company for some days past. The two ellyn have been at their wits' end as to what to do, but our mother simply says that they are past a millennia in years and should be wise enough to bear it and learn honorably."

"An honorable speech," said Gandalf, inclining his head. He had known the trio's mother since she was a young lute-player in the royal house of the Lady of Light, and had known Nithroniel Vaessen well enough to realize that one did not simply refuse her anything she desired. Seemingly, this encompassed far more than the toys and sweets that had taken her fancy in her childhood; this now extended to the upbringing and education of her three errant sons as well. Haldir, the first of the lot, had given his mother little trouble, but Rumil had proved a handful; when Orophin had arrived ninety years later, he had driven poor Nithroniel nearly to her wits' end and forced her to rein in the lot of them, even the gentle Haldir. But the years had granted that elfling joy again when he had been taken as an apprentice to a healer in Lorien's border guard, and Haldir had left home. Now he was the marchwarden, and officially held the highest combat position in the realm.

"Why are you here, Gandalf?" Rumil asked slowly in Sindarin, his dark hair and eyes appearing suddenly a little way beyong Haldir's golden head. "For what have you come? Do you wish to consult the Lady?"

"Indeed I do; she is here, is she not?"

"Three days ago, she set off on a journey to confront the lord Saruman at Isengard and tell him exactly what she has been seeing of late in her dreams. She will be back within a week, as she must, for a whole host of guards rode with her."

"Ah," said Gandalf. "Orophin, would you-"

"It would be a pleasure both to me and to my lord to see you as a guest in our humble house," said Orophin proudly, standing on one leg; it must not be forgotten, after all, that he was quite a young elf.

"Thank you, dear lad."

The company proceeded into Caras Galadhon in silence, and Gandalf was struck nearly dumb by the brillance of the shading lights, which threw dappled shadows wherever they fell. Orophin set up a flet for Gandalf right beside the one he shared with his brother and Father, and the two sat in peaceful quiet until a messengar mounted up to the flet, breathing heavily.

"My lords," he said, snorting in and out through his nose. "Lord Celeborn refuses to speak to anyone but to the Grey Wizard; there is something he wishes to convey to you now, perhaps to save both you and he from losing much."

Gandalf needed no more persuasion; after all, he had journeyed there to speak to Celeborn and the White Lady.

"If you will, Orophin," he said, "inform Lord Celeborn that I have arrived and that I will seek counsel within the next few days.

"And you will go, of course?"

"Talk such as ours is not fit enough for young ears," said Gandalf with a sigh. "Inform Celeborn that I am coming."


End file.
